


here we are

by utrinque_paratus



Series: have a little faith in me [3]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: (just as Peter), Additional scenes, Book 8: False Value, Canon Compliant, Extended Scenes, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, POV Thomas Nightingale, PTSD, Spoilers for False Value, Team Folly, although I might have stretched plot boundaries for the sake of it, background Beverley Brook / Peter Grant, bits and pieces of headcanon, consider this concept: Nightingale/Therapy, everyone is a certified badass, no one can convince me otherwise after reading FV, several other characters are mentioned or might even make an appearance if there is another chapter, therapy sessions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29466996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/utrinque_paratus/pseuds/utrinque_paratus
Summary: “This is not up for debate,” said Thomas. “Any objective will become irrelevant if it infringes upon my duty to protect Peter in the proper manner. I will not have another version of events ascertaining to levels of Covent Garden.”I will not fail him again.__The finale of False Value, from Nightingale’s point of view.
Relationships: Peter Grant & Thomas Nightingale, basically: Thomas Nightingale & everyone
Series: have a little faith in me [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164338
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	1. we are the warriors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and Chapter Titles are taken from the song ‘Warriors’ by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> Concurring Chapter of False Value is mainly Chapter 19: The Loot Box (the penultimate chapter).

**2 February 2016, Medway Ports**

“Absolutely not,” said Thomas. There was more of Captain Nightingale in his voice than he preferred, but perhaps it would help to make an impression. 

The tactician inside him – a side that, as time had proven on many accounts, got mixed up and even overwhelmed with the impulses of _this isn’t the_ right _thing to do_ with far too much ease – was acutely aware that letting Peter go inside the warehouse to confront Skinner on his own was, every detail and general strategy considered, the most sensible approach to their predicament. Reasonable. Well-thought-out also. To give credit where it was due, all his apprentice’s long-term planning had grown to be exactly that as opposed to a great many of Peter’s last-second approaches, which tended to err on the risky side of things. 

A trait that, considering many of both his bygone and more recent records, he wasn’t enough of a hypocrite to debate.

It had always been his problem. He did not mind risk if it concerned himself. He minded if it concerned others, had the potential to put them in jeopardy. He minded even more if they were those he was responsible for, or innocents caught up in the crossfire; and he minded most if they were people that he _cared_ about.

Cared about in the proper sense. The sense which, thence, indicated the most frightening and most powerful emotion of them all. 

_And it is_ good _that you care. Caring is not a bad thing,_ Valerie Green had said during one of the sessions, and had extended one of her gentle smiles while he sat quietly, while tears had been forming inside his eyes – and while he hadn't even known why they were there, and why _now_ ; and Thomas still wasn’t absolutely sure if she had comprehended in how much resonance and yet conflict this statement stood with everything that he had lived through – and all the pain that had torn him apart because he had _cared_. 

Cared deeply. 

Many voices, fragments of sentences said to him over the span of what already felt like a punishing taste of eternity swam in and out of his consciousness. 

_Emotions only conflict matters, Nightingale. Feelings rarely mean anything during a war. The ends always justify the means._

_Best if you do not think at all, Captain. Or need I remind you that good soldiers follow orders?_

_It’s because you are too attached._ _Sacrifice is necessary. For the greater good. What’s one, two, a few dozen soldiers in the grander picture of_ this? _It’s reasonable._

But he was not in a war anymore – as a roster of a rather impressive cast, stretching from Abdul over Dr Green and DCI Alexander Seawoll to Beverley Brook and one Abigail Kamara – tended to remind him of at suitable intervals.

So why did it _still_ have to be this way?

Miriam agreed with his tactical side but had the vantage of less conflicting triggers of both past and present.

“Peter’s right – it is what it is,” she said. “We have to try it his way in the first instance.”

The look she gave him was levelled and calm; rational; professional. As he should be. _It’s reasonable, Thomas._

She was on solid grounds. They all were. Thomas knew it – why it was more reasonable to let Peter go instead of him; let him try to defuse the situation as quickly as possible; to potentially deescalate, to have Thomas himself be the back-up within a good view of the sleeping drones if anything went wrong. _Reasonable._

What they didn’t know was that the word had never indicated that he would be more likely to approve.

Because throughout his life, the word had been used by persons of differing influence and importance – both in their rank to what they meant to _him_ – to argue for actions ranging from bedtime hours to the highly probable death of hundreds.

Because as matters were, here, right at this moment, he was standing in the circle of three persons who mattered to him, one of them more than he could have ever imagined – and furthermore the one he was asked to send straight into the lion's den, on his own, _once more._

In another life, Thomas had vowed to himself that he would never grow vulnerable to this – that sentiment which had brought him so much suffering – ever again. For the sake of his own sanity, and even more so in the face of a potentially endless existence.

It would have been easier. So much easier.

_You can never let it become personal, or it will tear you apart._

_And yet,_ Thomas had let it become personal – again – in many, irreversible ways. And thus, he did not approve of Peter's plan. Not a bit.

 _And yet,_ Thomas conceded. 

He caught Peter's deep brown gaze and narrowed his eyes. 

“If needs must.” His voice was firm. “But I want you to be cautious.” As if that statement had ever helped. Thomas actually didn’t think anymore that it ever would. It was just for the sake of it, and the minimal chance that at some point, someone would actually take it to heart and _listen_. 

_As if you_ ever _frequented cautiousness when it concerned yourself._ A silver voice, one of the past, one that had never truly left him, sighed resignedly in the back of his head. _As if you_ ever _have not justified your own actions of recklessness with ‘it needed to be done’._

“Hey,” said Peter, and gave a lopsided grin that induced a sharp tug-of-war – of quarrelling worry and a glow of resigned pride – inside him. “Cautious is my middle name.”

Despite being used to this – and while being quite assured that his ad infinitum practice at keeping a straight face in a manifold of situations sufficed this time as well as all the others – Thomas’ throat still went dry; as dry as desert sand.

Dust and smoke at the ruins of Skygarden Tower, icy cold piercing his body standing next to a broken-in platform at Oxford Station and the fiery pain in his half-healed lung racing up the steep stairs to the rooftop of a building in Soho mixed with the visuals of a hole in the ground, a lone chair next to discarded electric equipment, the Actor’s church at night and Peter’s shirt soaked with rain and the blood of Martin Chorley’s corpse. 

Thankfully, Miriam answered. It somehow comforted him that her voice held enough grimness to make any private’s knees shudder. 

“But your first name is Never Knowingly.”

Nobody laughed; of course, nobody did, because Sahra and Miriam cared as much about Peter as everybody else.

It did not matter that this wasn’t a war as such. It all could happen so fast. It was a miracle that Peter, regardless of becoming more and more proficient at magic and a great many other skills – despite having proven endless times at how quickly he could adapt and power through the most difficult of situations – had survived the past events in light of his tendency to do heroics and Thomas’ own shortcomings.

And now, Peter was becoming a father. This, in the context of the past times that Peter had been putting himself – and had been put – into intense danger, entailed implications that transcended whatever Thomas had dared to confront before, but had to now.

Determination settled inside him. He had sworn to protect Peter. To the law, to whatever entity it called for, to whatever higher being who might be there to hear.

He had sworn to Beverley Brook, and to himself. 

_‘I promise I will always protect him. With my life, if needed.’_

Maybe he had to let Peter walk the first line. But this time he was going to make sure at slightest notice that Peter would emerge unscathed; and his worries subsided slightly as again, the silver voice in the back of his head – a rum merger of his darling sister, and more frequently as of late, the infallible Dr Green – spoke. 

_You are not on your own._

Here they were, and nobody of them was.

* * *

Before they could set the operation in motion, they still had to clarify the plan at hand with Gold leader, who was monitoring the proceedings from Belgravia station together with Alona Silver. As expected, Miriam didn’t even get to finish her second sentence after she had given start to explain.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.” The loudspeaker of Miriam’s phone squeaked with a tremendous effort to reproduce the thunderous lion’s roar that was Detective Chief Inspector Alexander Seawoll’s intonation; an exploit that was doomed for defeat. 

Miriam muttered something decidedly not eloquent under her breath and gave Thomas another one of her inimitable looks. 

He merely proceeded to raise an eyebrow.

“Look, Alex, nobody of us wants to send Peter in there on his own. But it’s –”

“– fucking _reasonable_ , as you will surely illustrate in a second, and don’t I bloody know it,” said Alexander. 

Time and again, it was a privilege to listen – and to learn – as Miriam and Alexander powered through, right to the moment where all points were stated and all options considered. Thomas only chimed in there and then to comment on the more magical aspects of the operation, and left most of the talking to Miriam. 

It was just at the end that he made his voice heard loud and distinct.

“I want to make one thing abundantly clear. I will be on immediate standby throughout all of this, as we have discussed, together with Sahra and TSG. But if there is only the slightest indication of Peter being in serious danger, or anybody else for that matter, I will immediately intercept to whatever extent I see fit, and,” he added quietly, “with every option I have at my disposal.”

A moment of ponderous silence followed.

“This is not up for debate,” said Thomas. “I will be as appropriate as possible in any reaction to try and preserve the baseline objectives and not induce any undue damage, specifically regarding those computer systems. But any objective will become irrelevant if it infringes upon my duty to protect Peter in the proper manner. I will not have another version of events ascertaining to levels of Covent Garden.”

_I will not fail him again._

“I agree,” said Alexander, out of the blue. “And you have our full confidence on this, Thomas.”

It was an admirable thing to behold how many aspects Alexander Seawoll could impart with variations of voice alone whenever he veered from his usual growl. Thomas had been privy to a great many of these deviations throughout his time working with him. 

This one was steady and calm, and probably – from the expression that Miriam held – as rare as it was recent for Thomas in particular to witness.

The moment passed as fast as it had appeared. Alexander gave one of his famously long-suffering sighs to demonstrate that no, _I still don’t fucking like it, but there is nothing to do about it now, is there;_ and spoke on. “Then it’s settled. And I want all of you to be _fucking_ cautious. Miriam, after your last stunt I expect you to stay as far out of range as possible. If there’s as much as a scratch on you your missus will dissect my bollocks and feed them to the bloody chickens. And for _fuck’s sake_ , make sure they all wear their bloody PPE gear, _especially_ Peter. Not just that god-awful Metvest. On that note, Thomas,” and there was a weighty pause, “do me a fucking favour and wear one as well, will you?”

Special personal protective equipment had been fitted and made for Peter, Sahra and him in the late stages of Operation Jennifer; constructed after some consultation with him as to how it would enhance protection during engagements that tended to escalate on the magical side of things, and safety guidelines that Abdul had concocted with Peter on the fly. Not that it had done them any good at _that_ point anymore. 

He sighed. 

“You do know, Alexander, that should a situation arise where my metaphysical means of protecting myself will not suffice anymore and this gear will appear to be paramount for my well-being, you and everyone else will in all likelihood be miles beyond caring?”

It was a sarcastic deflection to which he resorted entirely unawares. Old habits were hard to break. Especially when those rather fatalistic quips had once been the only way to keep a modicum of humour and sanity on the frontlines. 

A short laugh bellowed through the speakers.

“On the contrary!” exclaimed Alexander. “I am _quite_ aware that you’d say exactly this. But we, and if you want me to bloody specify, I, are not fucking everyone, or whoever else you just thought of. So put on your fucking gear.”

* * *

It hadn’t been a question. 

Thus, under the watchful eyes of Detective Inspector Miriam ‘The’ Stephanopoulos, Detective Constable Peter ‘The Starling’ Grant, Herald of the Morning and First Officially Sanctioned Apprentice Wizard of the Society of the Wise since 1944, and Detective Sergeant Sahra Guleed, most recently a Legendary Swordswoman of Chinatown, put on the fucking gear.

And Detective Chief Inspector Thomas ‘The’ Nightingale, Master of the Folly, Most Dangerous Man in Europe and according to the Weimar Syndicate of the Third Reich’s _Waffen-SS_ a nuisance enough that his head was worth more than the one of The White Mouse, did the same; and added one of his battle staves into the vest holster for good measure. 

* * *

Peter and Sahra were only given the go to depart into the direction of the warehouse once Alexander had given each of them a personal briefing; and Frank Caffrey and his lads, by now registered as – in Abigail’s words – the _official_ official London fire brigade liaison force of the Special Assessment Unit, had arrived with the willie petes. Peter had agreed with him that, if need arose, they were the best quickly available alternative to the use of magic to destroy the drones in an efficient manner.

Of course, they had cleared the issue with Gold leader and assorted authorisers beforehand. 

After talking over the regularities with Frank as usual and fixing the location of the reserve in case that firefighting services would be required, Frank handed a few of the original Number 80 grenades over to him with utmost care. “You know the deal. Flaming point upon contact with free oxygen, spitting and sticky fire…” 

“... that may generate bone-deep and toxic burns, produces extreme amounts of acidic and poisonous smoke…” continued Thomas, while clipping two on his utility belt, and fastening further two on the front of the protective vest. 

“... risk of spontaneous combustion, high longevity and should only be handled by certified personnel and approached by firefighting professionals with special equipment…”

“... forbidden to be used as an incendiary and chemical weapon against both soldiers and civilians as ruled by Protocol III of the UN Convention on Weapons of 1980 and the Geneva Conventions,” finished Thomas.

“Oh, that part of yours is new,” said Frank. 

“Also, it apparently glows in the dark.”

“Sorry?”

Thomas grimaced slightly. “Peter and Abigail had me sit down and watch a series on experimentation with explosions, fire and concurring chemicals recorded by some student scientist who then put it up for consumption on this… YouTube.”

Which appeared to be strange enough that Frank threw back his head and gave a roaring laugh. 

“Christ, really?”

“Indeed they did.” Thomas paused. “Although it has to be granted that it was very informative. And, in retrospect, slightly, well, unsettling. I… might have made sure to clear out every remaining chemical reserve inside the restricted laboratories afterwards.”

“Good on you.” 

Leaning against the side of the vehicle, Frank began to tick off boxes on a chart as Thomas fastened the last one of the cylindrical containers securely. 

“For protocol,” said Frank, “I have to make sure that you are properly instructed in the usage.”

The grenades were a heavy and familiar weight. And even if it had been decades since he’d last been storing them directly on his body, it was still a scaringly accustomed feeling. Handling them, as most devices or weapons he had once regularly carried during the war, would present no problem. 

“Let's spare ourselves some time and skip that part, shall we?” said Thomas mildly.

“Roger that.” Frank had already flipped the contract to the last page before he even could have had a chance to reply. “Then all that’s missing is a signature, and you’re good to go, Captain.”

He looked up. Frank beheld him with a crooked smirk that had apparently been handed down throughout the Para generations. It was one that made him look more like his grandfather than Thomas would have preferred. 

Nicotine on his lips. The rush of adrenaline through his veins while running through thick white smoke, providing valuable cover. Flashes of melted skin and craters scorched into flesh; wounds that did not belong to the carcasses of long-lost creatures leeched of life by _disvitae_ , but to humans writhing and screeching in endless pain; and the glum chuckle of Patrick Caffrey echoing through his head. _Regarding the state of this war, I propose that Geneva_ Suggestions _would be a more befitting descriptor._

Thomas almost immediately jolted himself out of it by concentrating on the feel of that grey Medways afternoon; by taking a deliberate, deep breath, and unclenching his jaw. 

More of this wouldn’t do.

He ought to not let his old ways become his worst enemy. Not after what happened during Operation Jennifer, and not with all the work he had done since then to prevent exactly these catching up with him in vital situations.

His first reaction would have been to merely let the moment pass over. Frank and him had been at that point often enough, and Thomas had long resorted to endure the fact that for some, he would always remain Captain of Item Company, assigned to the First Parachute Brigade of the First Airborne Division. Even if oftentimes, he wanted nothing more than to part with this association for good, he had a responsibility to carry it onwards; and for nobody more so than those who had laid down their lives while serving within it. 

That notwithstanding, there now appeared to be something nagging him inside his mind. Thomas skimmed over the pages, and while he did, that nagging grew more substantial, until it again took shape in the form of that silver voice, arguing with his natural impulse that he should not have to endure everything silently – a concept that Dr Green had called _setting boundaries._

He spoke as he took the offered ballpoint pen and placed his signature, and there was no malice inside his voice as he did. 

“You do know, Frank, I would think it proper if you were to stop addressing me like that.”

“Hard habit to break when one's granddad has been Lieutenant with the legendary Firecrests.” Frank slightly tipped his head. “And today, you’re even looking the part.” 

Thomas pressed his lips together, took it as it was, and handed back the pen. 

“I imagine I do.”

But just as he was about to walk away, a twinge of yet another _something_ made him hesitate, and then stand still.

Thomas half-looked over his shoulder.

“For what it’s worth, I prefer DCI these days.”

A slight frown tugged at Frank’s mouth. It could have implied just about anything, but then he gave a short nod and straightened.

“Very well, DCI Nightingale,” said Frank, and saluted. “Ready for Anything.”

For a mere moment, he closed his eyes; but even the sting inside his stomach could not prevent the voiced motto from giving rise to a faint smile.

He turned around fully and reciprocated the salute; and unfailingly echoed the phrase as a response – in the original Latin at that. 

Hugh ought to be proud. 

* * *

From a good distance, Thomas watched, standing next to Miriam, as Peter and Sahra approached the Transit van and checked its interior.

About a minute or so after they had reached the car, Miriam’s phone rang. She immediately took the call on loud. 

“Falcon Three speaking. Falcon Two has entered the objective.”

Even after all the foresight, the confirmation still sent an ice-cold mass sinking into his stomach. 

_No way back now._

Sahra went on. “Also, there’s one of these… engines inside the car. An operational one at that.”

A sharp edge of unease cut through him.

“It has to be protected until the operation is over. We have to ensure it does not fall in anyone’s hands.”

“That’s just what Peter said,” said Sahra. “Already cut up the tyres.”

 _Good lad,_ he thought. 

“Right, you’ll stay put for now,” said Miriam, “and I’ll send a bulk of TSG’s your way to protect the entrance, and that… thing.”

“If you feel any kind of increase in _vestigium_ from the engine, I expect you to remove yourself and any other officer to a safe range at once and give me a signal,” he added. 

“Will do, sir,” said Sahra. She left an unvoiced, yet unmistakable _‘I’m not Peter, after all’_ hanging in the air, and ended the call after informing them that she would now switch to her standard radio device.

A moment of silence settled. Thomas felt his muscles tense up, and then, invariably, a very familiar sort of treacherous calmness spread throughout his body. 

“I reckon that signifies my turn.” He fished his mobile phone proper – the one Peter had once gifted to him for Christmas, and as such presented an invaluable object – out of his pocket, activated the off-switch, and handed it over to Miriam together with the Jaguar car keys for safekeeping. 

In turn, she gave him a radio device. 

“Dialled you in earlier.”

“Thank you.”

He attached it to one of the shoulder straps of the vest, right next to where one of the grenades was secured. As he looked back up, he realised that Miriam eyed them with great suspicion. 

Telling her not to worry and explaining that he was well-versed in using them only earned him an exasperated huff. 

“Sometimes I really ask myself if you actually do not get how fucking disturbing you sound saying these kind of things, or if you are just constantly taking the piss.”

“Both, I suppose,” he sighed. 

Miriam gave a resentful groan. 

“Just don’t kill yourself doing the job, will you?” she said – which Thomas thought to be a bit uncalled-for, seeing as she had been the only one inhabiting an Inspector rank in the Met who got shot on said job in recent memory. But since _he_ was the not exactly prideful holder of the same status regarding the Chief Inspector position – and was keenly aware that her incident hadn’t been due to mere recklessness, and, as it had been the case with him, utter stupidity – he kept his mouth shut, and Miriam sent him on his way. 

The first time his radio crackled was when he had walked about half of the way towards the lorries harbouring the masses of drones.

“It’s Broadway Two,” said Miriam. 

“Falcon One listening,” he responded.

“Forgot to mention something important.”

“Which would be?”

There was a short pause.

“Good luck. And for heaven’s sake, watch out for yourself.”

* * *

As always, waiting proved to be the hardest part. Especially as Thomas was unable to anticipate what sign precisely it was that he was waiting for. 

During the war, it had been easy. Destruction and death preceded by always the same pattern – sudden explosions, rattling of machine-gun fire, howling of mortar shells, the roaring of approaching planes, screams splitting apart the air, _vestigium_ of all kinds hitting him like a mallet to his face. 

This had changed. Although he had to admit to himself that explosions hadn’t proven to be all that unlikely – on further deliberation, sudden onslaughts of _vestigia_ also, but they thankfully tended to be of a much more bearable sort. And in any case, he needn’t have bothered too much on that account, because in the end the signs – plural – were, as Alexander would put it with fervour, ‘pretty fucking unmissable’ indeed. 

This time the explosions, in a refreshing break from the norm, represented the fine finishing touches of the operation as opposed to anything else. 

Rather, all of it kicked off with Thomas perceiving a high-pitched whirring sound. Almost like a mosquito making its way towards your skin to find a suitable place to bite. It was only an innate connection to that inexplicable core of something that had grown indivisibly one with him when he had produced his first werelight – one that was as vital to him as breathing – which made him call it in. 

A second later, there was a grinding crack, and then a far-away whining noise of electric motors working against a retarding force. A gap appeared in a part of the warehouse’s wall facing him across a distance of about some hundred yards. Thomas felt for some kind of _signare_ or novel _vestigium_.

There was none. 

“What’s that sound?” said Miriam. 

“One of the freight doors of the warehouse seems to be opening,” said Thomas. “Purely mechanical, though.” He made a few steps forward from his position in-between the containers, but not as much as that he would give up the cover the shadows provided. The gap was growing larger, but remove and differences in brightness made it impossible to see what was happening inside. 

Instead of waiting for the door to rise up high enough that he would be able to distinguish something with his natural sight alone, he cast _telescopium_ . It was a version modified with _inflectares_ for differences in light intensity, and he kept it highly controlled to be able to continue to use the radio on the side. 

The first thing he consciously made out – had searched for – was Peter. Of course it was. 

Thomas allowed himself to blow out a long exhale before he passed it on. 

“I see Falcon Two,” he said. “Seems hale and hearty.”

The responding radio chatter consisted of at least four different voices expressing variations of giving thanks to some higher being – along with one very distinct _‘thank fuck’_. 

“There is Skinner also,” he continued. Slowly he could discern more of the large, high-ceilinged room. “They have a few yards between them, and Falcon Two is standing on a dais of some sort. It looks as if they are talking. Also, I can see an… organ?”

For a moment, he stopped talking, and reinforced the spell. The pipes became apparent. Yes, clearly it was, a small organ, but somehow the keyboard was missing, and it was connected to –

He did not get any farther. He did not catch Miriam’s answer, also.

Instead, his vision went white as a massive spike of fluttering buzz from left and right entwined with the reek of spoiled fish and assaulted every single one of his senses. 

It was a decades-old and unforgiving reflex that had him power through the pain splitting through his head, siphoned the _vestigia_ away, and made him surge forward rather than freeze in place or simply collapse. Mechanically, he registered what had happened, and knew what he had to do. His limbs went through the motions on their own. 

One and a quarter pounds. Two point five to four seconds of delay in detonation. That was the tricky part. But he could throw them far enough to remain outside the initial blast radii even if something went awry. The first round would go further into the back of the containers, the second two at the front; and a grenade was in each of his hands without him ever consciously removing them from the vest. 

Withdraw safety pin. Hold the fly-off lever in place against the body of the grenade inside left while withdrawing the one of the second in right hand with teeth. Throw. Fast spell to shut the doors of the containers. 

The clinking of the pins falling to the ground was loud and distinct. One, two. Far away, the sound of the strikers flipping the fly-off levers clear reached his ears. Armed munition, affirmative.

Detach from belt, repeat. One, two.

Once the first of the four grenades detonated with a muffled sound, the door of the second container already snapped shut, and Thomas, shield drawn up unwitting, was running away from the sudden explosion of white smoke towards the assigned rendezvous point as fast as he could.

Only when he was about fifty yards away, the blood rushing through his ears had died down far enough that he heard the aggressive squawking his radio emitted. 

“This is fucking Broadway One to Falcon One, do you hear me, I repeat, _do you fucking hear me?_ ”

His right thumb came up and punched down the microphone input despite being stiff with pulsing sparks of pain.

“Yessir,” he yelled, still running, still operating on something eerily mechanical keeping his brain under control, and then Alexander Seawoll roared:

“ _Thomas,_ are you _with us_?”

It ripped him out of… _it_. 

He ground to a halt. Realised, with something akin to horror, what had happened. Again. _Fucking again._

The same heartbeat that panic bubbled up to fill the sudden cracks, that trembling began to clamp down on his throat, that he found himself to be disconnecting from reality, Dr Green spoke. 

_Make yourself aware of every little thing you see, hear, feel. Of what is there, what is real. Breathe in and out. Deliberately. Consciously._

Many times he had questioned if something that mundane would ever be enough to stave off what he had once likened to a raging sea monster inside him roiling up from the depths to wreak havoc and do its best to turn him inside out – always when he was at his most vulnerable; physically, mentally. 

But what else could he do? This was nothing magic would ever be able to fix. And a small tool was so much better than nothing at all. 

Therefore, Thomas took a deep breath.

_In._

Grey clouds. Cold air. 

_Out._

Parking space. Medway Ports. 

_In._

Racing heart thrumming against fabrics of modern clothing snug on his skin. 

_Out._

Small pearls of sweat on his neck. The smell of tar and exhaust fumes and phosphorus and – there, a slight tinge of salt from the onshore seaside breeze on his lips. 

_In._

Silence. _Silence,_ except for the sound of something burning and cracking, of modern car engines, a seagull's mew, far away. No battlefield. 

Nobody was shooting at him anymore.

_Out._

_Keep breathing. It’s a habit you don’t want to break._

When he answered, he did in a meticulous manner.

“I am.”

“Bloody hell you are,” growled Alexander, at the same time as Miriam said: 

“Are you _sure_ you are alright?”

“Quite,” he said curtly and with levelled force, and took up a jogging pace. “The drones were activated, the grenades were planted and exploded, everything went to plan. Approaching meetup point Alpha shortly. Any intelligence on Falcon Two?”

And _that_ was the precise point that the music started. 

Thomas whirled around on his heels. 

“And what on earth _is that?_ ” inquired Miriam. Not even the noise mixed with the roughness of the radio transmission could conceal the evident exasperation underlining her tones. 

From his angle, it was almost impossible to get a good view at the freight door in order to assert what exactly was happening, but the next moment – just like that – the music itself became irrelevant also.

In the assorted chaos of fiery spices, curry and black ground pepper were the most prominent today. Their tastes coated his tongue while the scent of burnt hair was carried towards him on a crisp phantom breeze carding through his hair and making his nostrils flare; as if he stood upon Big Ben and faced an improbable new dawn rising over London's rooftops after the world had ended once more. 

For a single moment, Thomas held the key to winding up a clockwork orrery with deliberate turns; a clockwork going with a steadfast _tick, tick;_ one that would, in time, change the universe. 

Peter’s _signare_.

By now, Thomas was convinced that he would be able to pick up on his apprentice’s _signare_ across miles. This close, he noticed everything – the exact workings of preparation, buildup and release; right down to the _formae_ he used and which modifiers he applied. 

Peter had cast two fireballs. 

Trepidation shot through him. Again, his reaction was almost automatic; like a powerful soak that dictated his every drive. His instincts screamed at him to start running, to get Peter out as fast as possible. It took all his willpower to not directly break into a sprint as he was ripped back and forth between _I have to act now, I need to protect him_ and _whatever stands in my path will be eliminated_ against _Follow the objectives, clear up everything beforehand_ and _trust Peter to be able to assess accurately._

And so, Thomas resorted to blank out everything and trusted the companion which he could always rely on to judge – he turned to the whisper of magic. 

A further pull of the _signare_ mixing up with a buzzing background noise of _vestigium_ , a susurration of the former onslaught on his mind. _One of the drones._ Peter cast a third fireball – stronger than the first couple ones – and it overwhelmed, then extinguished the faint buzz. _Peter standing his ground._

And then, nothing. No more _vestigium_ of the drones, only the remainders of Peter’s perfectly executed spells sizzling away to leave a faint imprint of chilli flakes inside the air. _Peter is well, the attack is over._

 _He’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe,_ breathed the magic inside his ear. 

_For now,_ he countered.

Thomas hit input. 

“Falcon Two was involved in a short metaphysical engagement, but he has it under control,” he said, deadly calm, his gaze fixed forward. “There is some sort of brass music still being emitted from the warehouse, though it's fainting. I will intercept upon any further incentive. I need someone with clear view of the freight door opposite the lorries. Get Falcon Three and backup over to my position, leave armed personnel at the van. Over.”

There was a moment of dead silence, and then another squawk. “Done,” replied Miriam, taking his words into account without question. 

He kept standing lightly inside the boots, ready to jump into action, listening, anticipating. Another wave of oddly comforting tenacity was forming layer upon layer around that place where the trembling had arisen from.

Sahra arriving with half a dozen armed officers shortly afterwards marked the moment in which Miriam forwarded that spotters had reported the freight door being re-closed and that Peter had called her and had confirmed that the scene was secure. While Miriam spoke, Thomas acknowledged Sahra, who was carefully scrutinizing the thick white swaths leaking out the containers across the distance, with a nod. 

And in that ironic theatre of life, he noticed the instance that Miriam made to finish the call and Sahra dared to voice his careful hopes – mumbling something about _‘everything going okay for once’_ . Or, as a wise general whose name he had forgotten had accurately put it, _‘And that’s why you never cheer too soon, son,’_ leaving him standing next to the bloody ruins of that orphanage in Tobruk they had fought so hard to save, only to see it being destroyed by an unexploded demon trap the kids had found long after the city had been relieved. 

It took time until he had been able to place it. Maybe because there had been something inside him that had simply refused to accept that it could be; had merely tried to protect him from completing a connection to the perceptions of a place he had buried in the darkest crevice of his mind. 

“To Broadway,” said Thomas, “wait.”

“What?” said Miriam.

“Something is developing.”

“Is there?” asked Sahra with a frown. 

“I need you to fucking specify,” said Miriam. 

Thomas listened.

Feelers of something shrouded in darkness crept towards him. _Foreign,_ the magic whispered. _Not of this world._

“Something… else,” said Thomas. “Keep the TSG back from entering through the main door for now, I’m taking Falcon Three and backup to approach the freight door and check.”

Thomas began walking towards the warehouse – and the feelers.

“Else in which way?” inquired Miriam. 

_Dangerous,_ the magic whispered. An involuntary shiver ran through him, but he forced his voice to stay even as he answered. 

“In the way that it’s not sound.”

“I’m picking up nothing, sir,” remarked Sahra, keeping pace. 

_You know where it’s from,_ came the whisper; tried to bring forth memories that his entire being categorically rejected. _He tried to open it up. He didn’t succeed. But you still felt it._

It couldn’t possibly be.

“Do I need to inform Falcon Two?” said Miriam.

“Yes,” said Thomas, and quickened his gait as the foreboding strengthened, as the magic whispered in a thousand little voices, faster and faster and faster; _Danger, Danger, Danger._ “Tell him to get to that freight door. We are going to extract him. _Now._ ” He threw up several separated spheres of protective spells; around Sahra, the officers, and lastly, himself.

And without any kind of additional prelude, their predicament was rather thrown into turmoil. Or that was what he would have stated if inquired by a third person. It depended on perspective, of course. All the gradations of inconvenience based on how different people were affected by certain events needed to be covered in a report as succinctly as possible. 

But as far as his uncensored opinion was concerned, everything went damn straight to hell.

A sudden wave of charnel house reek and rotting seafood rolled over him, strong enough that he had to suppress the impulse to choke, and it blew the wall of desperate rejection inside him to grains of dust. The connection jumped into place like an electric shock running through him from head to toe. 

Somehow, an alternative entity was opening up inside the warehouse. _Allokosmi_ , David had named them; had built up experiment upon theory and the other way round, and had marvelled at them in all his naiveté; and as with almost everything that David had taken an interest in, Thomas had last felt these shades of darkness lurking in between the corners at the research facilities upon the Ettersberg. 

Sahra gasped in revulsion. 

Thomas screamed Peter’s name.

He only learned much later that Peter had called Miriam at exactly the same moment to tell her that the freight door needed to be opened immediately. At this point Thomas, who was running as fast as his legs could carry him, was already halfway there, with Sahra and the officers coming up a few yards behind; and he was driven by horrific flashes of two things that up until now had been kept painstakingly separated inside his mind suddenly colliding into a shared space. 

_Pine and burnt hair._

_Woodsmoke and spices._

_Wet canvas upon his skin and that clear breeze fresh from the skies._

As they got closer to the warehouse, Thomas only sprinted faster. He fortified the shields and threw his right hand forward in a fluent motion, _called out,_ and the constant thrumming of magic turned from _danger, danger, danger_ to _guide, protect, fight._ The shapes gathered around him and advanced upon his command. On their path, they sizzled through the malicious feelers with the efficiency of a white-hot knife before warping around the freight door mechanism. Thomas _gripped, twisted_ and turned his palm upwards. 

The mechanism ground, and then the wall lifted; tonnes of metal, shearing _up, up, up;_ and then it stopped as suddenly, something all-encompassing pressed it _down, down, down._

Thomas had to break step. _No, no, no,_ shouted the magic; and he reflexively wanted to grasp for his staff. At the same heartbeat, that innate core told him that this wasn’t about the energy that had to be fed into the cycle to keep the balance between the shapes and physical effects, so he left it where it was. 

It couldn’t be more unlike an enemy practitioner stopping a spell with a shield, or counter-attacking his _formae._

This was something that tried to simply smother his shapes out of existence.

“I’ll get him,” yelled Sahra, overtaking him on his right. Down the line, Thomas realised that she must have comprehended at least the outlines of the invisible battle of his magic against whatever it was that was pushing back and had acted accordingly to give him room for absolute focus. “You stay back and on alert and cover the DCI,” she shouted at the other officers, and then dived forward to roll through the gap – as intrepid and valorous as ever.

Caught in a deadlock, Thomas emitted a deep growl as he struggled with the effort to counteract. It was almost like a wrestle for better footing to assert his ground. Raising up his left arm to be parallel to his right as he stepped towards the freight door, one foot after the other, he _gripped_ and _twisted_ a second time to augment the spell. As the shapes flailed under the sticky drip of pitch-black tar that tried to soak through his net of intricately drawn lines, he gathered them closer; weaved them into a dense and complex pattern, changing and adapting and morphing where the feelers touched upon him and his shields; probed, destroyed, drowned him inside an attack of _vestigium_ which was by now viciously reminding him more and more of standing in the middle of a killing field, with its ground littered by corpses and the iron tang of fresh blood mixed with the stench of faeces stifling every single one of his breaths.

And just when it had become almost unbearable already, there was a rush – some sort of gleeful madness, a wild and vicious enthusiasm that reminded him of Punch, only that this was far worse – hurtling towards him like a spear, its tip pointed forward, tearing through one layer of his defences after the other as if they were scraps of paper, leaving no doubt that this would destroy him – and Thomas had no time to think about a less drastic option for his counter, because he only had one chance, and if he wasted that chance, the entity would come for Peter next. 

Thomas let go and jumped, and the whispers sang – _spread your wings, let me carry you_ – and just for a heartbeat he submerged himself and let the shapes become one with this inner core inside him. Magic scorched through his body, without control and inhibition, and there was a flash of _brightness,_ and _heat,_ and _this was what it had to feel like flying towards the centre of the sun._

The feelers recoiled with force, leaving him in free-fall. Thomas never knew until long afterwards what had given him the strength to regain his hold on the shapes; to open the parachute at the last second to rise up before he hit the ground. 

Just as it seemed as if the pressure would split his brain, he broke back through the surface and managed to separate the connection before the nexus he had allowed to develop tipped the point of irreversibility. With it, a church bell ringing with the agonising pounding of his heart against his ribcage was lifted from his head; left him gasping to fill his lungs bereaved of air as he dragged himself back up onto the cliff. 

Although he barely had the capacity to concentrate upon what was happening in the actual reality, Thomas didn’t give himself any room to recover – to ponder, or even just process what he had just done. The impossible screech of rhythmic grinding noise from inside the hall was urgent and unmistakable, almost excruciating inside his ears, and only enforced the tunnel vision that had descended upon him. 

This was another Mary Engine at work – it had to be the catalyst that opened up the _allokosmos_ and had paved the way for that entity to pass over into their world _._

It had to be annihilated at all costs. Now or never – the darkness would not stay away for long. It was the only chance that an end could be put to whatever this momentum was. Peter and Sahra had to get out into a safe zone for him to have a chance at destroying the Mary Engine with an extensive spell. One that was fast and brutal and didn’t need precise focusing, hence not giving the entity a chance to use that moment to subdue him.

Exploiting the moment, he wrenched the door further upwards, and just then Sahra came back out from under the door. She dragged Skinner with her. If he was alright, Thomas could not tell – he did not have it in himself to spare the bastard a single look. 

“Everyone get clear,” she yelled. Their eyes met for a second, and Sahra understood without a word. With one arm hooked into Skinner’s, she ran, took a sharp corner, and the TSG officers followed on her heels. 

The darkness coiled, grew denser, made itself ready for a new attack. They had to act now. 

“Peter!” he shouted, as urgently as he could. 

His response was barely audible over the noise and his senses still reeling, and yet, somehow, Thomas perceived it as clear as day.

“Hold the door where it is,” Peter yelled back. “And get ready to drop it as soon as I’m out!” 

What almost felt like laughter bubbling up inside his throat manifested as an exasperated sigh of resigned surrender as he realised that Peter would cast a spell to destroy the Mary Engine himself. _Of course_.

_Lord, what more is it going to take to make him put himself first?_

Peter conjured one of his time-delayed fireballs, and then, at long last, emerged – with shreds of darkness in his wake. Thomas immediately encompassed him with a shield which severed the grasping feelers away. 

And suddenly, something far more substantial than the feelers, something akin to a pair of predatory eyes, fixated upon him – and his apprentice. 

Cold, deathly defiance balled inside his heart. 

_Not today._

The Nightingale repulsed the stare as he turned his palm, _slammed_ down the freight door, made it mold together with the ground upon contact.

_And not, never, him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, some explanations:
> 
> Nancy Wake, AC, GM, also called the ‘The White Mouse’, was an agent of the Special Operations Executive during World War II and one of the most decorated female associates of the Allied Forces. The Gestapo put a 5 million franc-bounty on her head (former French currency). At the time, this equated to 250.000 Reichsmark (the currency of the Third Reich).  
> Today, 250.000 Reichsmark at its market worth of 1944 would equal about 825.000 €.  
> -  
> The “Waffen-SS” (“Armed-SS”) was the military branch of the Nazi Party's SS organisation.   
> -  
> “Willie Pete” is WW2 military slang for white phosphorus grenades, derived from William Peter, the World War II phonetic alphabet for "WP".  
> -  
> The YouTube-Channel I am basing the White Phosphorus reference on does, actually, exist and is called “Explosions&Fire”. It’s absolutely delightful and I can only recommend it (especially for chemically-inclined people). I know that this Fic is set in 2016 and his video on White Phosphorus was only uploaded in 2018, but I simply could not resist.  
> -  
> Next to all of the wartime headcanon is not confirmed canon, but also does not contradict it. Nightingale's deployment as a paratrooper and that he led 'I(-tem) Company' of the Folly's forces is thus also all headcanon, including Patrick Caffrey being his Lieutenant and grandfather to Frank. (Oh yeah, I've got *lots* of headcanon regarding all of that.)  
> -  
> “Ready for Anything” is the English translation of the motto of the British Parachute Regiment, which was formed during World War II. The original Latin phrase is ‘Utrinque Paratus’. (Yes, I know. :-) )  
> -  
> The Falcon / Broadway codenames for the main agents/actors participating in SAU Operations are adapted from the final operation of The Hanging Tree. There, Nightingale, Peter and Sahra had been assigned Falcon 1, 2 and 3 respectively while Operational Command (such as Seawoll) was assigned the descriptor Broadway. (Gold leader would, in this case, also be Seawoll.)
> 
> \--
> 
> So... Hello to all of you :) It has been a long time. Lots of things happened, I feel like I aged a whole-ass decade. But anyways, I wrote this some months ago, and finally am both better & have regained the courage to upload, so, take this. 
> 
> (An aftermath chapter has already been written in bullet points and may follow in full length at some point in the future, but I am really in no position to make *any* promises regarding uploads! Also, this serves as a kind-of-sequel to "I might just let hell take my fall from grace"... if I ever get the previous written. Fingers are crossed though!)
> 
> To all the warriors that (re-)built their town from dust; here you are – don’t turn away now. Keep on fighting, because you are worth it, and things will get better. And always remember: You are never truly alone, as long as you believe in yourself and stay true to your heart.
> 
> Sending love & hugs.


	2. don't turn away now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small companion/interlude to the first chapter.

**Autumn 2015**

‘To be quite frank with you, regarding this, there appear to be similarities in how you and your apprentice behave.’

‘I am afraid there are.’ Thomas gave a mirthless smile. ‘Similarities, that is.’ A short pause. He looked down onto his folded hands before he continued. ‘Not that this necessarily constitutes a good thing.’

He had done it again. Had taken the dangerous corner.

Dr Green crossed her legs and re-balanced her notebook on her thighs. 

‘Would you like to explain?’

Thomas took a deep breath. _No way back now._

‘It is… Peter, he is…’

_Astute. Honest. Principled. Brave. Too brave for his own good._

‘He is… reckless. In regards to himself more often so than anyone, anything else. Of course, there is always the chance…’

He stopped.

Unfolded his hands. Fidgeted. His right thumb hurt. Decades-old scarring from long-healed wounds. He started to massage it, unconsciously, then caught himself. 

Refolded his hands.

Began again.

‘I think… I feel like I have not been…’

_Don’t think. Don’t feel. It is what it is. Don’t be a coward, Thomas._

‘You see, Dr Green, I have not been a good teacher. In plenty of ways. And…’ 

Too complicated. Too much chaos. Too many thoughts to put in order. 

Too much guilt. 

Thomas turned to look out of the small window reflecting the cold morning light. The colours of autumn slowly faded away to make place for the clutches of winter. 

He hated it. The bleakness of it. The memories. The cold. 

The minutes that ticked away seemed to go on forever. The cold. 

_One step. One more step. Just one more step._

He had to convince himself, again and again. More pain with every step. He had to convince himself to not just curl up into a ball on the ground on the shores of the Mosel in the rain, let the werewolves find him. He had to convince himself to put himself in pain, with every step; again and again and again. 

The minutes ticked away as he said nothing, as his mind took step after step in January 1945, revelled in revisiting that all-to-familiar pain of walking a hundred miles with a cauterised bullet hole inside his body rather than to think of the guilt of the present, of Peter’s suspension, that Peter suffered because he had failed him, again and again. The guilt that he could have been dead, that Chorley could have killed him, or Lesley – Lesley, who could have shot Peter just as well – Lesley, whom he… – no.

That Peter had been abducted and imprisoned and tortured, that he had almost died so many times because… because… because…

 _Guilt_. 

His hands came apart trembling as he turned away from the window, as he wanted to bury his face inside them. But something stopped him. Stopped him from hiding. One of these ill-advised impulses.

Coward.

_Say it, Thomas. Just say it. Don’t turn away now._

And all of a sudden, he did. 

‘I have failed him,’ he blurted out; just like that, there it was – a shard that had stuck inside his guts for too long, had festered, had infected; finally extracted. 

And then, all the blood and pus came spilling out in its wake. 

‘I have failed so many, so many during my lifetime that I have lost count. But I should not have – Peter was, he is the one person where I had the sole responsibility of getting it right. Just this once. But I did not, did I? I damn well failed him! I have failed Peter, and not just that, I have been – I have not – I should have taught him to _watch out_ for himself, to _care_ for himself, to _not_ throw his life away on a whim to save others, to be mindful and take breaks, to not push all of his suffering away, but I have – I have – he became – I just –’

Thomas struggled, breathed heavily, in and out, in and out – and this was worse than jumping out of a plane behind a frontline, this was worse than running through machine-gun fire towards a line of Nazi tanks, but it ought not to be. It was not like him to stop. It was not like him to _not_ find a way. And thus, Thomas tried again, tried to be brave, do the decent thing, just this once – stuttered, faltered – stopped again. 

His mind simply… shied away. During the war, he would have left it like that, buried it, with the truth unexplored; he would have carried on nevertheless, if only to function. Would have suppressed it after it would come back in fraught intrusions of memories and during the nightmares, and then carried on again despite. 

But he wasn’t in a war. 

Dr Green spoke the truth for him; and while she did, the expression on her face was so gentle as if she were speaking to a panicked child realising for the very first time that their parents were never going to come back. 

‘In these regards, Peter became you,’ she said. ‘Adapted your behaviour, if only subconsciously. Not watching out for oneself. To a certain degree, not even caring for oneself.’

Thomas had known that, somewhere, deep down, a very long time. Had known all about this himself. It should not have come as a surprise to think through it, to have been told, consciously, in the first instance. 

It still hit him to the heart, with a shot as accurate and piercing as a rifle handled with a sniper’s aim. 

‘Oh God,’ he gasped, unwillingly, ripped out of his throat. Out of nowhere, his head felt like it was splitting apart. He wanted to run and hide more than ever before in his entire life; out of guilt, out of shame, of something entirely else he did not yet comprehend – but he could not, not anymore. 

‘Ready to throw one’s life away on a whim to save others,’ continued Dr Green. ‘Not being mindful of oneself, not taking breaks. Pushing all of one’s own suffering away.’

‘I was not always – the war, and just – all this time – I’ve never intended for all of this,’ he croaked, drowning, unable to articulate what came to him in bursts, like coming back to the surface of the raging sea to spit out water, to gasp for air before he went under again. ‘Not for Peter - not for…’

‘Of course, you never intended for all of this. Of course, you haven’t always been like that,’ said Dr Green. He wanted to scream at her to stop, wanted to cover his ears, but it would just not do. Not anymore.

_Don’t turn away now._

‘You carried on, the only way you knew how to preserve and protect yourself while the world and persons around you asked impossible things of you. Forced impossible things upon you. You were thrown into the dust for the wolves to devour, and it was the only way you saw how you could stand up and survive. And still, you fought on, asked impossible things of yourself, gave and gave from an already empty vessel.’

Suffocating sorrow warped itself around the guilt and the shame, and suddenly, it morphed into a novel kind of poignant grief; that kind that utterly engulfed you, absorbed you, and that struck hard enough to crush the ribs.

But Thomas had learnt long ago how to exist with all these things. 

It was the undiluted understanding, the compassion – for him – in the softness of Dr Green’s voice that sent him over the edge of the blade. 

And when the tears finally came, tears of the first time since the war where the tears were mixed with ones of mourning for himself, they overwhelmed him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deliberately wrote this in a different style - at first this was a flashback to be included somewhere during the first chapter, but it didn't fit into the flow at all and as such I decided to post it separately as a second chapter. 
> 
> Anyways, Nightingale needs therapy. (I totally think that, in this headcanon at least, it was Walid who convinced him.)


End file.
